The Colours of You

In an ocean of starlight, on an ancient wooden rowboat stained with centuries of service, we sail in solitude through the night sky, towards the After.

There is no scenery here. No mountains to frame the world, nor seas to divide it.

The rower drives an ore into the shadows and ink laps against the sides. On this final voyage, conversation does not flow as freely as the water in which it takes place. The passenger usually studies the stars in silent contemplation, while the rower rows.

Eventually, an invisible milestone is spotted amongst the shadows and the ore is lifted. The boat lulls idle for a moment, before being swept by the current, evermoving to the After.

“Not far now,” the ferryman’s voice is hoarse. “I s’pose you already know what you’re doing here.”

I nod.

“And where you’re off?”

I nod again.

The ferryman, a cloaked figure around the height of a small tree, takes a seat on the bench across from me. Their countenance is disfigured by shadows, but the reflections of starlight reveal a lifetime’s worth of wrinkles.

“I must warn you; I’ve been doing this job for a while, and I’ve seen all sorts of things. You try to jump, try to swim, try anything, you’ll soon regret it. Anything but complete obedience won’t be tolerated. Is that clear?”

I nod.

“Good. Now, I’ve no interest in introductions. You do this as long as I have, and you’ll have heard every name in the book. I do have something to share with you, though.”

I flick my gaze from the sea. The ferryman is a strange creature of abstract shape and shifting size, though its discernable head and shoulders and general silhouette resemble that of a human and do little for its divinity. Beneath the cloak could be my grandmother, withered and frail, or my brother, who stood at six feet, four inches in his youth.

“On the way to the After, everybody is offered the chance to relive a single memory. In this memory, you can do and say whatever you like. You’re no longer bound by the laws of time and objective reality, but there are three rules,” the ferryman says.

I expect a wave of dread, of sorrow, of regret for the opportunities that passed by like ships in the night. Instead, an aching absence.

“Most people use their memory as a chance to say goodbye, let someone know that they’re not coming back. Others use it to speak with a loved one that they haven’t seen for some time. Last week, a boy took his dog for one last walk…” the ferryman’s shoulders drop, and they sniff a breath. “You can also use it to fix a mistake. Right some wrongs. It’s a lot easier to get into the After with a clear conscience, believe me.”

“The rules?” I ask.

“Oh, the rules. Yes, the rules,” the ferryman remarks. “The first rule is that it must be a true memory. Number two, you can’t do anything world shattering. If your memory is a tour of the White House and you fancy pressing the big red button, you won’t be accepted into the After. Clear?”

I nod.

“The last one,” they sigh and study the ripples that the boat creates on the water as it passes through. “You can’t stay.” The ferryman says. “At some point, you’ll return here. No matter what. The second your mind departs from that moment, you’ll come straight back to the boat. Just…” They pause and nod their head, “try to enjoy it.”

The ferryman reaches their arms across the length of the boat and a hand emerges from either sleeve. I take them in mine. The ferryman has rough palms, birthed from centuries of labour and love for this strange sailboat on a strange sea. “So, where you headed?”

“The beach,” I hear myself say. “In Barcelona. The sun is setting, and my feet are bare in the sand, and jazz music is pouring from the windows of a nearby cocktail bar, and she is there, and I have her hand in mine, and…” My words ebb away and the sweet scent of suncream and freshly cooked seafood surfaces. I press my eyes closed. Hot sand singes my heels and beads of sticky sweat pool on the collar of my linen shirt. The scaly hand in mine is now soft and plump and cool. I trace her varnished fingernails with the tip of my thumb, and then her knuckles and the veins protruding on the top of her hand, and I am reminded that this is false. She is not real. She is not here. She is at home, hopefully asleep in her bed, with the electric blanket on and a dog-eared book on the nightstand, waiting for a phone call to tell her that I had to stay at the office, once again, and that I am on my way home.

And then she squeezes my hand.

“What are you doing?” She asks. I keep my eyes closed out of fear. “Babe?”

“Just walking.” I manage.

“Open your eyes,” a honey-sweet giggle rolls through her – I could drink the sound. “Look, the sun’s setting.”

I peel them open. Vibrant daylight fills my head and, in being blinded by the sun for the final time, I am reminded of my agonizing reality. But, as the glare fades and my vision clears, she comes into focus. A captivating beauty crafted with wild locks spun from onyx, sapphire eyes peppered with starlight, and round cheeks so full of life. A delicate breeze catches her hair and, on its passing, delivers the light aroma of her perfume. I let it surround me and inhale enough that a whisper of the scent nestles within the crevice of my mind. I make a mental note to use sparingly.

She slows her steps and I stop. I remember what happened here, she asked me to stay and watch the sunset, but I wanted to go back to the room and get ready for dinner.

“Let’s stop here for a moment,” I say, before she gets the chance. “Watch the sunset with me?” Her face illuminates. We lower ourselves onto the sand and she lays down, resting her head on my lap. I should have stayed.

Sunlight bleeds into the ocean, staining the sky with scarlet streaks, and another day is stolen by the horizon. Violet blooms in the absence of the sun as the embers of its dying light are swept away with the current. I can feel my mind slipping, as though the After has wrapped a wire around my thoughts and is starting to pull. I dip my finger into the cooling sand and write ‘STAY’.

“What do you want to do tonight?” she sits up and asks as dusk sets in.

Tonight. The word twists my stomach and I long for the absence of feeling once more. Tonight. We went to a restaurant and then to bed. She finished reading her book and I had another late night at the office.

“We can think about that later, let’s just stay here for a while longer. Let time pass.” How much time? Not enough. Never enough. I reach for her hand and pull it up to my mouth, grazing her knuckles with my lips and gripping. If I squeeze hard enough, maybe this will become real or maybe I will wake from a terrible dream and she will be lay beside me, her sleeping face illuminated by strips of moonlight peering between the gaps in the blinds. The silhouette of her hips will be cast on the wall and she will have the entire duvet pulled to her side, but it would be okay, I would let her keep it.

I place a delicate kiss on each finger and then the back of her hand and her wrist and the inside of her elbow. I stroke my hand against her cheek and brush a kiss on both eyelids. She breathes a laugh against my skin and every hair stands to attention. She tucks her hair behind her ear, and I follow her lead, barely touching my lips to the base of her neck and drinking in her cherry-cola perfume.

After some time, she pushes me away with a smirk and a raised brow. She stands over me and brushes the sand from her shorts. I push myself up and hold my hand in hers. She slips her fingers between mine and we walk along the sea, our path illuminated by distant streetlights that line the nearby promenade. The sea is in slumber now, and reflected on its ripples is the glow of a full moon.

Her eyes study the coast. What thoughts does it conjure in her wonderful mind? She once told me that her thoughts appeared in colour, rather than an internal voice. It must have been lonely, I used to think. Having since visited a place so absent from colour, sailed on an ocean of black, I now realise that we who think in words are the lonely ones.

“So…” she says, though her mind is elsewhere. “Have you thought about what we’re doing tonight?”

That invisible wire tugs again and my mind drifts. Our time together is coming to an end and the hole where my heart should be throbs.

I prepare for a tsunami of thoughts, but nothing comes. The steady thrum of her heart beats through her hand against my palm. I search for something to say. Anything. I try to form the words ‘I love you’, attempt to describe just how beautiful she is, warn her of the accident and prepare her heart for the impending news.

I breathe a tentative breath and consider a goodbye, and then I envision her eyes darkening and her cheeks sinking and her mind becoming plagued with the same voice that infects everybody else’s. She is untouched by death. She has no pain lingering in the shadows, nor a heavy heart brimming with grief ready to overflow at any given moment. I could never do that to her. To say goodbye now would be to stain the rest of her life with a minute, almost undetectable speck of black.

“You once asked me, if my life was a painting, what colours would be in the palette.” I say, finally.

She turns, her brows furrowed. “I remember.”

“Well, the palette would be made up entirely of—”

My mind flashes with shadows of memories. No. No. No. All of the late nights at the office. A blonde one with long legs. A green-eyed one with auburn hair. A short one with tanned skin. And I am transported back to the boat. Her hands are no longer in mine and her face is nowhere to be seen, but the scent of her perfume lingers.